


Games People Play

by Talithax



Category: Weiß Side B - Fandom
Genre: Explicit Language, Humor, M/M, POV First Person, Stand Alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ken's shock at an old friend's betrayal is cured in a somewhat unique and unexpected way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games People Play

===============  
Games People Play  
by TalithaX  
===============

Scrunching down lower on the sofa, I place the cushion I’d been hugging to my chest over the open newspaper on the coffee-table and will the footsteps I can hear heading my way to just keep on going. When they don’t, and come to a stop in the doorway, I stare blankly at the ceiling and do my very best to pretend to be invisible.

I’m not really here… Please, keep moving… There’s nothing to see here… I’m just a figment of your imagination…

“Ken!”

Aaah. Aya. How wonderful. Just my non-existent luck to score the only damn person in the whole entire estate not to have any sort of an imagination. To Aya, I’m not only sitting on the sofa but I’m also sitting on the sofa doing nothing other than feel sorry for myself. Which, as far as he’s concerned, is simply an unfathomable waste of perfectly good time that could otherwise be spent in the pursuit of…

Well. In the pursuit of *something*, I’m sure.

Ignoring first Aya’s barked use of my name and then the huff of annoyance he follows it with, I roll over on to my side and present my back to him. All being well, unless he’s feeling either masochistic or in the mood for a fight, he’ll get my less than subtle hint and leave me the fuck alone.

“Ken!”

Or not.

So much for that futile hope then.

Bastard.

Not in the mood for one of Aya’s blunt and to the point lectures, I grope along the length of the sofa until my fingers stray across a cushion. Snagging it up, I sigh pointedly and place it over my head. If this doesn’t work then, to hell with the consequences, I’m just going to wave the white flag of defeat and tell him to fuck off. Loudly and with enough vehemence to ensure there’s no margin for error in his comprehension of my wishes.

Huffing again, this time, I think, in exasperation, Aya stomps over to the sofa and pulls the cushion away from my face. “While I can accept that it has come as something of a shock to you,” he states flatly, throwing the cushion down the other end of the sofa and peering at me through slightly narrowed eyes, “you just need to put it behind you and move on.”

And…

He shoots! He scores!

Aya’s matter-of-fact, ‘get over it already’ comment being the equivalent of the proverbial red rag to a bull, I roll over and sit up. “Fuck. You,” I grind out, glowering at Aya and wondering, not for the first time, I might add, just what fucking planet holds the honor of calling him one of their own. And, perhaps more to the point, *why* they saw fit to unleash him on an unsuspecting world.

His eyes widening in both surprise and displeasure, Aya takes a step back and returns my glower with a not at all inconsiderable degree of interest and attitude added. “Excuse me?” he queries coolly.

“You heard me,” I mutter, propping my feet up on the coffee table and folding my arms across my chest. “Fuck. You.”

Sighing, Aya shakes his head and gives the minutest of casual shrugs. “Have it your way, Ken,” he replies, giving me a dismissive, disappointed look before turning around and walking back towards the door. “Should you wake up to yourself and wish to rejoin the land of the living, we shall all be outside.”

My already shitty mood having been further soured by Aya’s unwanted interference, I’m now spoiling for a fight and, before I can stop myself, snatch up the cushion from the coffee table and throw it at Aya. Hitting him on the back of the head, he spins around to have a go at me but, having been expecting it, I get in first.

“What gives you the fucking right to tell me to put it behind me and just move on, huh?” I shout, my annoyance at -- the world -- Aya taking the form of self-righteous indignation. “We can’t all be fucking Teflon coated like you, you know!”

“What are you talking about?” Aya snaps, his eyes flashing with temper as he picks up the cushion and, after a second’s hesitation, places it on the nearby armchair. “I was just trying to…”

“How do you do it, huh?” I interrupt, throwing myself back on the sofa and glaring at Aya as, his expression an interesting combination of uncertainty and annoyance, he glares right back at me. “Come on, Aya, just how do you fucking do it? Regardless of what life throws at you, you just shake it off and keep going. I mean, look at you. With the exception of your current toy having far blonder hair, what’s changed since Tokyo and…”

“I don’t need to listen to this,” Aya mutters coldly, cutting me off and giving me the sort of look that would make a lesser individual question not only the quality of their parentage but also whether they should start viewing their life expectancy in seconds as opposed to years. “You’re upset, Ken, and you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“There you go again! Putting words, incorrect words at that, in to my mouth when I’m perfectly capable of speaking for my fucking self!” I retort, punctuating my outburst with a carefully extended middle finger. “Now, come on, Aya, what is it with you and blond, live-in lovers anyway? Convenience? Laziness? I mean, God forbid you ever have to lower yourself to going out looking for sex or anything like that.”

“Leave Chloé out of this,” Aya replies, his deceptively mild tone of voice at odds with his contemptuous expression and defensive posture. “What he and I are to each other is no more any of your Goddamn business than what it was Yoji and I once shared. Honestly, Ken, you’re just behaving childishly. Whether you like it or not, we’ve all, and this, incidentally, even includes you, moved on. Weiß, and everything it represented at the time, is a thing of the past.”

“And again that’s easy for you to say,” I mutter sullenly, the desire to fight with Aya up and deserting me as suddenly as it descended. “It’s okay for you, Aya,” I continue, looking away and sighing. “While it might just be down to hard work, you, once you’ve put your mind to it, can fit in anywhere. I don’t know if you even realize this but I’ve been here, in London with Krypton Brand, for longer than you have yet you’re already far more settled than I am. The language is no problem to you, you’ve shaken off your past, and, hell, just like you did with Yoji, you’ve even managed to hook Chloé with your… ah… charming personality and easy-going nature… Now, come on, when you look at it like that you can’t deny that you haven’t landed on your feet.”

As per fucking usual. Without wanting to fall prey to making use of analogies involving felines, Abyssinian *always* lands on his feet. I think it’s coded into his DNA or something. Me though, while it could be argued -- given that I’m still alive and in one piece -- that I also land on my feet, where I land is just as likely to be muddy as it is dry and my ankle is likely to give in before I stand up. Aya, however… Shit. He’s just designed for survival.

And, yes, right now I’m jealous of him. I wasn’t last night, and he’s welcome to Chloé, who I think is… odd… at the best of times, with my blessings, but…

Fuck it.

I’m jealous of his aptitude for languages and how the more juvenile of our customers don’t laugh behind his back at his accent or how easy it is to confuse him. I’m also jealous, and this perhaps is the real crux of my current problem, of how the bombshell in the Asahi isn’t fazing him in the slightest. In fact, I don’t think it would be too much of a stretch to say that he honestly doesn’t care, that, as far as he’s concerned, it’s got absolutely nothing to do with him anyway.

“I…” Pausing, Aya sighs softly and, no doubt wanting to get as quickly away from me as he possibly can without giving in to the urge to bolt, starts to walk out of the room. “I’m sorry, Ken. I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“There’s no reason you should have,” I murmur, gesturing out the door and mentally crossing my fingers that Aya doesn’t decide to change his mind about leaving and keeps on going. “It… It’s okay, Aya. *I’m* okay. I just want to be alone, that’s all.”

Pausing in the doorway, Aya looks back at me for a moment before -- thank God -- walking through the door. “If you change your mind, we’ll be outside,” he states over his shoulder. “I… Never mind. Just forget it.”

Settling myself sprawled out on the sofa, I watch Aya’s back until he disappears as, out of nowhere, it dawns on me that our entire exchange had been spoken in Japanese, that, in direct contradiction to our self-enforced rule of always speaking English when in private, he’d…

He’d been *what*?

Taking pity on me by not adding to my crappy mood by making me stumble over my words? What’s more, as he was the one who spoke first and everything, does this mean he’d actually, in his own, unique and not at all normal way, been wanting to… comfort me? Aya?

Yeah. Right. And Michel’s about to enter his rebellious period and turn into a goth with a thing for facial piercings and antique corsets.

Dismissing the idea outright -- unsure of why he was even bothering with me in the first place, he simply must not have been thinking at his best, that’s all -- I shake my head and, because I obviously have no willpower whatsoever, glance over at the newspaper that’s still lying open on the coffee table. The picture, the happy-smiling-Goddamn-nauseating picture of the young lovers pierces, just as it has every time I’ve looked at it, my heart and I’m unable to stop the small moan of pain that escapes my lips at the sight of it.

I don’t, despite having gone over and over it in my head for hours now, know what’s worse. The fact that he’s getting married or the fact that he didn’t even have the balls to tell me personally and that I had to find out about it in the Asahi. An issue of the Asahi from ten fucking days ago at that. No phone call. No email. Not a fucking word.

Not. One. Fucking. Word.

Cold hearted prick.

People change. I know that. Contrary to the opinions of some, I’m not actually as stupid as I’m sure they think I am. In order to survive, things -- humans, animals, nature -- have to adapt, to go with the flow. If they don’t they weaken or, worse, die. I *get* that. Christ. Given that I’m now living in a country that I’d never even really wanted to visit, of course I fucking get it. Shit, as Yoji used to say, happens.

What I don’t get however is the silence.

Our love for each other, like Weiß, may be history, but I still thought that we were friends, that everything we’d been through together had formed an unbreakable bond that would have followed us into the afterlife.

Clearly though I was wrong. Hell. Maybe I really am stupid and all that being hit on the head with a soccer ball has actually, as Chloé is trying his best to convince Michel it has, fucked me over after all.

It’s just…

‘The Bringing Together Of Two Great Families - Takatori Mamoru Announces Engagement to Sohma Ai.’

It hurts. It hurts like a bitch.

All he had to do was pick up the phone or type a brief email. That’s all. I wouldn’t even have cared if, not wanting to hear my reaction, it was just Aya that he’d told. To read about it in the paper though, well, it’s like being kicked in the gut by your best friend. Or, the person you once thought of as your best friend, anyway.

Pushing the paper off the coffee table with my foot, I watch it float down to the floor before resting my head on the over-stuffed arm of the sofa and closing my eyes. Just to add insult to my already smarting injury, today is a public holiday and, instead of being able to keep busy in the shop, I’m stuck here at KR’s -- castle -- country estate with nothing to do with my time other than mope. It had seemed like a good idea last night, to stay here to recover from the weekend’s training exercises, but now I wish that we’d just gone back to London. At least there I might have been able to find a match to go to or, failing that, somewhere to hide amongst a crowd of people. Out here -- in the middle of freakin’ nowhere and miles away from civilization -- though, I’m just stuck.

Sighing for the umpteenth time this morning, I come to the snap decision that it’s not Mamoru’s impending marriage -- we’re not together anymore and, well, if he wants to play at being straight then good luck to him -- that’s pissing me off so much as it is the fact he couldn’t bring himself to do the decent thing of letting me know personally. If he wants to continue along his merry road of conforming to his family then, hey, good luck to him. I even hope he’ll be as happy with Ai as Yoji is with Asuka. Perhaps they even love each other and the whole thing *isn’t* just a publicity exercise for the Takatori’s and the Sohma’s.

Who knows though and, while I’m at it, who cares?

Given how little I obviously mean to him now, Mamoru can do what he damn well pleases. Get married. Breed. He can even take up where his despotic uncle left off and attempt to take over all of Japan for all I fucking care.

Shit!

After everything we’ve been through together, would it honestly have killed him to have dropped me a line?

Hearing the sound of the backdoor being opened, I open my eyes and, just for something to do, stand up and pad over to the other sofa, the one set back in the bay window. Resettling myself, I lean over the back of the sofa and watch Aya as he makes his way across the courtyard to where Chloé is sitting waiting for him at the wrought iron outdoor setting. On the table, just as I would have felt safe betting my life on, all set up and ready to go, is the -- never ending -- game of chess that they’ve been playing ever since Aya first joined Krypton Brand. How they derive, dare I say it, *pleasure* from something as fucking slow and as tedious as moving pieces around a board escapes me, but they do. Well, taking into consideration how many hours they waste doing it, I *think* they do anyway. Either that or it’s the grudge match to beat all grudge matches.

Reaching the table, Aya surprises me by lightly running his fingers along Chloé’s arm before sitting down. Going on the way his eyes widen slowly and the suspicious look he gives him, I think it’s safe to say Chloé’s as surprised by Aya’s out-of-character action as I am and I can’t help but wonder whether Aya’s actually feeling okay. First the lecture-free speaking in Japanese and now this, a casual display of affection for no known reason? God knows neither action is exactly in keeping with the Aya we know and… tolerate.

Bemused by the way Aya’s acting, I watch him -- slip back into character -- frown at whatever it is Chloé’s saying to him before glancing away and looking across the paved courtyard to the lawn. As Aya had said, everyone is indeed outside. Michel, who, I suppose because he can, is making daisy chains, and Free, who appears to be meditating, are both sitting on the grass in the sun while Yuki is lying on his stomach under the shade of the big oak tree. Because I suspect he’d go into some sort of withdrawal if he was separated from technology for too long, Yuki has his laptop set up in front of him and it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to learn that the only reason he’s even outside is because Aya made him. Across the other side of the lawn, sitting on the park bench and sipping tea, are KR and Mihirogi. At their feet, lying inelegantly on their backs with their legs splayed in the air, are KR’s two Golden Retrievers, William and Harry. Both look blissfully content, as though they’re in Doggy Nirvana and for a second I’m envious of their simple, inane happiness.

If not for the fact I wish I’d never gotten out of bed, it’s a lovely day. The sun is shining in a blue, cloudless sky, a gentle breeze is making the leaves in the trees rustle, and…

Quite frankly, it’s wasted on me. For all I care the sky could be pitch black and it could be pouring with freezing rain. Let’s face it, I already feel as though I’m icing over from the inside, so it’s not really as though the weather is going to have any sort of impact on me anyway.

Damn him! Thousands of miles away and he can still stab me in the back. It’s almost an accomplishment to be proud of.

My mood threatening to take yet another turn for the worse, I’m about to flop down on the sofa when, out of the corner of my eye, I see that -- instead of their usual practice of staring vacantly at the chessboard as though they’re waiting patiently for inspiration to strike -- Aya and Chloé appear to be having an actual conversation. Not an argument or idle chat about nothing in particular, but an honest to goodness conversation.

And… Fuck! Is today just the day for surprises or something?

While I can only assume they talk, as in *properly* talk, when they’re in private -- because if they don’t it means that all they’re doing is… and… uh-huh… that’s not somewhere I *ever* want to go -- it’s not something that usually goes on out in the open and again I’m left wondering as to what’s up with Aya. It’s not even midday and he’s already made three tentative steps out of his self-imposed and strictly adhered to boundaries. I mean, as news worthy events go, this is the sort of stuff headlines are made of.

Digging my elbow into the back of the sofa, I prop my chin up in the palm of my hand and keep my eyes trained on Aya and Chloé. My lip reading skills being considerably worse than my English skills, I have no idea what they’re talking about but that doesn’t hinder either my curiosity or my fascination and I watch them as though transfixed.

Although they’re, to everyone’s continued astonishment, ‘together’, the majority of their relationship, such as it is, goes on behind closed doors and most of the time you could be forgiven for thinking they were little more than begrudging team mates. Sometimes though, if he’s feeling bored, unloved, or in the mood to push buttons, Chloé will treat Aya as though they’re a… normal… couple. Aya, in turn -- and it’s almost reassuring how, in a constantly changing world, some things just never change -- reacts to this, this being stroked, teased, or touched, by tensing up and all but visibly bristling with defensive, ‘don’t touch me!’ annoyance.

To be perfectly honest, just because it reminds me of how he used to do *exactly* the same thing to Yoji, his reaction never fails to make me laugh and this, I’m sure, adds to Chloé’s amusement at the situation. Not Aya’s, of course, but, again, shit happens. Even if it does ultimately result in him stalking off and sulking somewhere though, he survives -- as always -- and the very next day they’re back where they started. Somehow, although I doubt even a psychiatrist would be able to get his head successfully around it, it seems to work well enough for them and, having no evidence to the contrary, I think they’re even… happy… with each other.

And, hey, all I can say to that is, ‘to each their own’. Seriously. There are things in the world that just don’t bear thinking about in any detail, and Aya’s love-life and what it is that makes him tick are two such areas to avoid. Like the plague…

Aya and Chloé’s conversation heating up, I watch as Chloé shakes his head before giving Aya an odd look. Although I could be wrong, I don’t think, going on his puzzled expression, that Chloé’s having any better a time understanding Aya’s peculiar behavior than I am. Shaking his head again, he shrugs expansively and, in an action that I read to mean ‘come on, just drop it’, gestures at the chessboard. Masking what has to be annoyance with a pout, Aya, in response, reaches across the table and places his hand over Chloé’s. He then, proving once and for all that he must have fallen out of bed this morning and hit his head on something hard, I’m sure of it, says, ‘please’.

Just… ‘please’. Nothing more. His expression clearly expresses the rest of it though. ‘Please, Chloé, I’m not going to ask again but I really would like you do to do this for me…’

No doubt deciding to err on the side of caution and to treat the strange Aya-Clone sitting opposite him with kid gloves, Chloé, his expression softening, nods his capitulation and stands up.

Victory his, Aya allows Chloé to ruffle his hair with only the tiniest of grimaces and, after watching him walk around the corner of the house, glances cursorily over towards the window. Being tinted with that stuff that means people inside the house can see out but no one can see in, I know he can’t tell that I’m watching him but that doesn’t stop me from breathing a sigh of relief when he turns his attention back to the chessboard. If he knew…

Urgh. Well, that’s just another one of those things that it’s best not to think about.

Watching Aya on his own being nowhere near as entertaining as watching him interact with others, I bite back a sigh and, letting my arm flop limply down, rest my chin on the back of the sofa. Sometimes, usually either when it was obvious that Yoji was in a particularly amorous mood or boredom made us think it was a good idea at the time, we’d drop whatever it was we supposed to be doing and just, from a safe distance, of course, watch Aya go about his business. Omi -- as he was known then -- used to be so afraid of getting caught that he’d hide behind me, clinging to my back and only taking fleeting peaks over my shoulder when I could guarantee that there wasn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell of Aya catching him. Yoji, I think, used to know what we were up to and -- quite possibly because he possessed exhibitionist tendencies -- never seemed to care. Aya though… Christ, if he’d known we never would have heard the end of it and that, in a sort of vicarious thrill sort of way, in itself was enough to make Omi think we were playing it close to the wind.

I…

I wonder what, if anything, does it for him now. Ai? Big business? Expensive galas? The title of Persia?

Glancing towards the door, I contemplate raising the energy needed to drag my ass back to my bedroom and am just revving myself up to make a move when, as I take one last look out into the courtyard, Chloé walks back around the corner. In his hands he holds a soccer ball that, upon reaching the table, he presents to Aya with a half bow and a fully formed smirk. My interest caught hook, line, and sinker, I settle back on the sofa as, a determined looking expression taking up position on his face, Aya stands up and takes the ball from Chloé.

Unable to think of a single solitary reason as to why Aya would suddenly want a soccer ball, I watch as they chat -- well, Aya issues forth with something while Chloé continues to smirk -- for a moment before, in a swift, unexpected movement, Aya bounces the ball on his right knee. He then, as my mouth drops open in surprise, catches the falling ball on his left knee and looks as though he’s going to repeat the trick of swapping knees when he misjudges the angle of the ball and sends it flying along the ground.

His smirk broadening, Chloé places his hands on his hips and steps back to allow Aya to retrieve the ball. Picking it up, Aya shoots a malevolent looking glare at Chloé before trying again. This time he gets to attempting to transfer the ball to his foot before, his coordination failing him, the ball once again goes skidding along the paving. Chloé by now is trying his hardest not to laugh and, my mind apparently thinking now would be a pretty good time to call a stop work meeting, I’m staring at Aya as though he’s suddenly grown antennae and a tail.

Just what the…?

Aya doesn’t even *like* soccer. In fact, he’s even been known to threaten me with physical harm if he’s felt I’ve been going on about it too much.

Shaking my head, I watch as, scowling alternatively at Chloé and the ball, Aya continues to try to master the art of keeping the ball off the ground with only his knees and feet. On the tenth or so attempt the ball veers off towards the table and it’s only through quick thinking on Chloé’s behalf that it doesn’t smash the chess game to pieces. Catching it just in time, Chloé tries to give the ball back to Aya and, seeing as he’s clearly pissed off at being beaten by an inanimate object, scores himself a mouthful of abuse for his troubles.

Shrugging, Chloé stares at the ball for a couple of seconds before moving away from the table and bouncing it experimentally on his knee. Finding the experience not as horrific as I’m sure he expected it to be, he transfers it to his other knee as Aya folds his arms across his chest and frowns. Beginners luck being on his side, Chloé manages to get the ball straight back up in the air from his foot before, with a far too forceful a kick, it all goes pear shaped and he sends it flying out in the direction of the lawn.

His eyes widening in dismay, Chloé tries to turn tail and flee but is stopped by Aya grabbing hold of his belt and effectively keeping him in place.

In his own cross-legged world of peace and calm, Free is blissfully unaware of what’s hurtling his way until it’s too late. Landing a bare millimeter or two away from his knee, his eyes fly open in shock as, not yet having done enough damage, the ball then rolls through Michel’s collection of daisy chains, flattening them, before coming to a stop flat against the back of Yuki’s laptop.

I start to snicker as, with three sets of identical, stunned looking eyes staring in their direction, Aya calmly -- and literally -- points the finger of blame at Chloé. Pulling away from Aya’s hand, Chloé starts to protest as, with a mournful look at his destroyed daisy chains, Michel stands up and, picking the ball up on his way, begins to walk across to the paved area of the courtyard. Common sense telling him that his laptop would be better protected from random, run away soccer balls if it was shut, Yuki closes the screen of his computer before, with a slight shake of his head, standing up at following Michel. His inner peace having been so spectacularly shattered, Free too stands up and makes his way off the lawn.

Reaching Aya and Chloé, Michel hesitates over handing the ball over and, I’d say, going on how his expression is radiating curiosity, asks just what it is they think they’re doing. Looking pointedly at Aya, Chloé remains silent, leaving the task of explaining the insanity to the redhead. Sighing, Aya answers in as few syllables as he can get away with and takes the ball out of Michel’s hands. He then backs up his explanation with a brief demonstration -- left knee, right knee, left knee, stopping ball under foot -- before shrugging airily and rolling the ball back to Michel.

Picking the ball up, Michel smiles brightly and tries to copy Aya. His skills being even worse than Chloé’s though, it bounces off his knee and once again goes flying towards Free. Catching it just before it hits him square in the face, Free crouches down as Michel runs over to him and listens intently to what the young teenager is excitedly telling him. Once Michel’s tale is finished, he stands up and peers down at the ball as though -- if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em -- he too is considering giving it a go. Given that he’s wearing a not at all sport friendly sarong, I don’t think I’m the only one to breathe a sigh of relief when, with a shake of his head, he returns the ball to Michel’s outstretched hands and goes to lean against the wall.

Michel’s second try being no better than his first, the thought that strikes me as Yuki runs along the lawn to retrieve the ball is that I’m witnessing what it would be like to run a soccer camp for the… ah… more intellectually challenged amongst us. I then, as after refusing to give it back to Michel, Yuki’s attempt sees the ball’s momentum being stopped by Aya’s shins, decide that the time has come to take pity on them all and show them how it’s really done.

Standing up, I hurry out of the sunroom and step through the back door into the courtyard just as one of the idiots sends the ball flying straight towards the door. The familiar rush of adrenaline immediately flooding me as I bounce the ball off my chest before promptly stopping it under my foot, I look across at the others and smile lazily. Aya stares straight back at me, his expression as unreadable as ever, while Chloé quickly masks what looks to be a relieved smile with one of his usual inscrutable smirks.

“Ken!” Michel exclaims, running over and looking up at me through bright eyes. “We were just…”

“Trust me, I know,” I laugh, cutting Michel off and effortlessly lifting the ball up with my foot. “You were just trying to do this,” I add, letting the ball bounce off my left knee before transferring it to my right and allowing it to drop to my ankle. I then kick it back to my knee and repeat the steps a couple of times before, just to show that I *can*, moving further into the courtyard while keeping the ball in constant motion and coming to a stop directly in front of Aya. “See? It’s easy.”

Making a dismissive, unimpressed sound under his breath, Aya shrugs and turns around to head back to the table. “Show off,” he comments blandly in English, poking Chloé in the arm to indicate that enough childish fun has been had and that it’s now time to return to the more ‘adult’ activity of staring at the chess board. “Come on. I’ve had enough of this rubbish.”

“No, no!” Michel states brightly, giving Aya a disapproving look before running across to Free. “It was wonderful! Free! Free, did you see what Ken could do with the ball? Wasn’t it brilliant?”

“It is certainly a skill,” Free replies mildly, the expression on his face adding that, while, yes, it’s a skill, it’s a skill that, in the grand scheme of things, he could quite possibly care less about. “Perhaps Ken, if he has the time, may teach it to you?”

“Sure,” I grin, aimlessly bouncing the ball on my left knee. “Michel, what do you say, do you wanna give it a go?”

“Oh, yes!” Michel beams, nodding happily. “Yuki? What about you? Do you want to try it too?”

“Er…” Dragging his attention away from Aya, who he’d been staring at as though mortified that there’s something I -- a mere pleb -- can do that his hero can’t, Yuki glances at Michel and blinks owlishly large eyes behind his glasses. “Um… Whatever, I suppose.”

“Come on. It’s easy,” I reply, catching the ball and holding it out towards Michel. “You just need to know what you’re doing, that’s all.”

“If the three of you are going to continue with this nonsense I’d appreciate it if you’d take it out on to the lawn,” Aya interjects flatly, sitting down and tapping his finger on the chessboard. “Some of us are trying to concentrate.”

His expression uncertain, Michel frowns at Aya and shakes his head. “But, Aya… Weren’t you the one to…”

“Don’t worry about Aya,” Chloé interrupts, gesturing towards the lawn as he sits down and smiling sweetly at the sour look Aya is directing his way. “He’s just jealous that…”

“Chloe!” Aya mutters with just the slightest hint of warning in his voice. “Are we going to play this game or what?”

“We’re playing, we’re playing,” Chloé murmurs, laughing as he crosses his legs under the table and makes himself comfortable. “Now… ah… whose move is it?”

“Seeing as I don’t care whose move it is,” I state, handing the ball to Michel and leading the way out onto the lawn, “come on, let’s get on with it.”

“Yes, let’s!” Michel retorts, linking his arm with Yuki and all but dragging him on to the lawn with us. The memory of his two near misses still being clear in his mind, Free remains standing against the wall, his gaze locked unwaveringly on Michel. “Come along, Yuki! This is going to be fun.”

“Mmm… Fun,” Yuki mutters unenthusiastically as, pulling away from Michel, he runs over to his laptop and places it, out of harm’s way, behind the tree trunk. His precious toy safe, he then returns to where we’re standing and looks up at me expectantly. “Okay. What are we supposed to do?”

“We’ll start first with mastering bouncing the ball from knee to knee,” I reply, nodding at Michel. “Do you want me to show you again or are you willing to just give it a go?”

“I’ll give it a go!” Michel responds, promptly dropping the ball not on his knee but straight down on to the grass. “Ooops! Let me try again!”

What follows, while more likely to be seen on one of those so-called ‘Funny Home Video’ shows than in a video demonstrating soccer skills, being as exasperating as it is fun, time simply flies by and before I know it over an hour has passed and one of KR’s housekeeper’s is standing at the back call door calling us for lunch.

Yuki, who actually, once he made up his mind not to be defeated by a stupid ball, was beginning to show considerable signs of improvement, sighs in relief at -- being saved -- the sound of the housekeeper’s voice and, without so much as a ‘thanks’ or ‘bye!’, runs off to retrieve his laptop before heading towards the house. Michel though, because he’d only *just* mastered the art of bouncing it on his knees, looks crushed and sighs heavily in disappointment.

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” he murmurs sadly, hugging the ball, “and I’d so hoped to be able to do it too.”

“There’s always the rest of the afternoon,” I offer, stretching languidly and enjoying the feel of the sun’s warmth on my back. “I’m free if you are.”

“Excellent!” Michel exclaims, placing the ball on the grass and giving me a quick, clumsy hug before, with what looks suspiciously like a skip in his step, hurrying over to Free. “Thank you, Ken!” he adds over his shoulder. “You’re right. This is fun!”

Laughing at Michel’s boundless enthusiasm, I pick the ball up and wander slowly off the grass. The prospect of lunch having been served not making them move any faster, Aya and Chloé are still packing up the chess set and, as Aya fixes me with a cool, possibly even bored look, it suddenly hits me.

Bastard! Smug, sneaky, underhanded, rat-cunning, manipulative bastard!

Despite not being able to do it -- God forbid! -- obviously, he *wanted* my mind off Omi’s… betrayal… and, knowing that soccer would be the easiest way of achieving it, he damn well set me up! Aya… Christ! He’s unbelievable.

Just… unbelievable.

“That little show of incompetence with the ball you were allegedly putting on for Chloé’s benefit,” I comment, walking over to stand next to Aya and placing the ball on one of the wrought iron chairs. “It was on purpose, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aya murmurs, shrugging. “We’d merely been discussing how easy the men on that stupid match round-up program you insisted we watch last night made it look, that’s all.” Pausing, his eyes narrow and he gives a derisive snort. “Besides, how was I to know you were spying on us from the sunroom? For all I knew you could have had your head in the oven trying to end it all.”

“You can cut the act, Aya,” I reply, grinning and wishing I was just that little bit more brave enough to -- take my life into my own hands -- give him a hug. “I know that it was on purpose and… and I thank you for…”

Shaking his head to indicate that he doesn’t want to hear it, Aya hands the last pawn to Chloé before starting to walk towards the house. “Seeing as it seems to have got through to your thick skull,” he mutters, “you can think whatever the hell you like. I’m here to tell you now however that the fact you were watching us through the window was simply coincidental and nothing more.”

His -- ‘like I’d honestly put myself out to comfort you. God, get real’ -- piece said, Aya shakes his head again and disappears inside.

“I know he did it on purpose,” I state adamantly, glancing at Chloé and mentally daring him to argue with me. “And I don’t care what anyone says.”

“Don’t try to drag me into your world of delusion,” Chloé replies benignly as, the last piece put safely away, he closes the lid of the elegant polished wood box that holds the chess set. “It’s got nothing whatsoever to do with me and I don’t wish to become involved.”

Mmm-hmm… And pigs might fly.

History not yet having taught me to be as wary of Chloé as I am of Aya, I sling my arm around his shoulders and give him a brusque hug. Reacting as though I’d either just groped or propositioned him, Chloé quickly extricates himself from my embrace and stares at me like he thinks I’ve gone mad or something. “And what, pray tell, was that for?” he queries, smoothing his shirt down and, in general, behaving like cat does after you rub it’s fur the wrong way.

“It was my way of thanking God for the fact that, seeing as I’ll never know the way his mind operates even if I live to be one hundred, Aya has a thing for blonds,” I grin, laughing as, clearly incapable of thinking of a suitable reply, Chloé’s eyes widen and his mouth gapes open in silent surprise. “I mean, God knows I’d rather you had the questionable honor of humoring his… issues… than me.”

“You’re… odd,” Chloé murmurs, shaking his head and, carefully ensuring there’s a safe distance between us, sidling around me. “Very, very odd. Now, not wanting to be pulled further down into your wonderful world of make believe, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going inside.”

“Save me a seat!” I retort, watching as, after giving me a dubious look over his shoulder, Chloé opens the door and walks into the house.

Alone, I stare up into the endless depths of the cloudless blue sky for a couple of moments before shrugging and walking over to the door.

Although I’m still smarting from *Mamoru’s* obvious disregard for his past, I know now that, ultimately, Aya’s right and I *do* have to move on. The past is just that, *past*, and both the present and the future beckon.

What I also now know however is that it’s doubtful I could have moved to a better place. Whether it was intentional or not, and I’m convinced that it was, this morning’s shown me that here, with Krypton Brand, is where I currently belong.

Goodbye, Omi.

Mamoru, I wish you every future happiness.

And, Aya…

I thank you for, in your own prickly way, just being there when I needed a shove in the right direction.

~ end ~


End file.
